Page 65 of Pucking Billionaire

Yeah. That’s better—except the sounds resume.

“Don’t worry,” Mason says. “I’ve got this.”

He’s got what? Holy water?

To my shock, Mason starts singing at the top of his lungs. The song is in a language I don’t recognize—perhaps Russian or Estonian. It’s slow and repetitive, and Mason sings offkey, but he does a great job of drowning out the sounds of Pazuzu. Combined with the horizon watching and the wind on my face, it makes me feel almost human.

After about a minute, Mason stops singing, and I hear someone ask, “Should we head back?”

It’s the boat’s captain. Unlike our cruise ship’s counterpart, he doesn’t look drunk out of his mind.

“Yes, fucking please,” Mason barks. “Get her to the shore as soon as possible—and sail smoothly from now on, or I’ll rip off your arm.”

Rip off his arm? Sounds like something a Viking would say… and I shouldn’t find it hot. At all. I’m a pacifist, or so I thought. Also, is it even possible to sail smoothly? Not sure, but given the frightened expression on the captain’s face, he’ll certainly give it his best.

As Mason turns back to me, his fierce expression morphs back into worry, and he resumes his singing—just in time too, as Pazuzu attempts to possess me again.

After what feels like four hours of torture, we dock and Mason carries me off the boat clasped against his chest like a bride. I’m so nauseated that I don’t even find the strength to protest. All I can do is pant, “Don’t take me back on any ships. I’m not ready.”

“Of course. Want to sit on that bench?” He gestures at one that is so far away I wouldn’t even see the ocean from it—a huge plus at the moment.

I nod. “Let’s swing by the bathroom first, please.”

By now, I’m pretty sure I can stand on my own two feet, but he carries me there anyway. He’s about to step inside the ladies’ room with me when I finally find my spine.

“I can use the bathroom by myself,” I say, wriggling free. “Thank you.”

He sets me down and watches skeptically as I take a few (admittedly unsteady) steps.

“I’ll be fine.” Thrusting his wet shirt that had been my compress back at him, I hurry into the bathroom.

Damn. When I check myself out in the mirror, I’m paler than the nearby toilet. Oh, well. I do my business, wash my face with hand soap, and then do my best to make myself as presentable as is possible after a Pazuzu attack.

When I walk out, Mason has his shirt back on—a pity. He’s also holding his phone to his ear, and his back is to me, so he doesn’t realize I’m behind him.

No idea why, but I softly approach to listen in on his conversation—only to realize that if our roles were reversed, I’d call it stalking behavior and never let him forget it.

“Sure, tickets for your wife and mistress as well,” Mason says, and I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. A part of me thought that he might be speaking to either a wife or a girlfriend that he never mentioned, but it’s unlikely either of those entities would have a wife and a mistress—not unless she was especially French.

“But,” Mason continues, “in that case, you’ll have to delay departure by three hours.”

Oh. Is he talking to the?—

“Thanks, Ivan,” Mason says, confirming my guess. “After the game, I’ll sign the puck for you.”

I can tell he’s about to hang up, so I tiptoe backward to the bathroom so that it looks like I’m just exiting by the time he turns my way.

“Hey.” Approaching me, he unceremoniously picks me up again and carries me to the distant bench. “How do you feel?”

Now that I’m not sick, his touch sends tendrils of heat into all my secret places—but I’m not about to admit that. Instead, I swallow and say huskily, “Better.”

I’m also touched that he’d go through the trouble of stalling the cruise for me, but I don’t tell him that either in case he’s about to use it as a bargaining chip to get me to sell the team. More importantly, I’m not about to admit that I eavesdropped—I enjoy my position of high moral ground too much for that.

“Just sit, breathe, and relax.” He lowers me onto the bench and sits next to me, draping his arm across my shoulders.

This is nice… but it’s too much like being at the movies with my sweetheart, so I should tell him to stop.

Any moment now.

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